I spray it again, certain I'm mistaken. Please let me be mistaken. But no. The sandalwood is there, subtle but unmistakable.
My hands start to tremble.
How is this possible? The cleaning service wouldn't touch my personal items—they barely move anything at all. No one else has been in my apartment. No one has access.
So, how is my perfume different?
A chill runs down my spine, raising goosebumps on my arms. Someone has been in here. In my closet. In my most private space. Someone has touched my things, altered something so personal, so connected to my body.
The violation makes my skin crawl. Makes me want to scrub myself raw, to burn every piece of clothing in this closet.
I set the bottle down, my hands shaking badly now, and back out of the closet. My apartment, my sanctuary, suddenly feels compromised. The silence isn't peaceful anymore—it's threatening. Watching.
I'm not safe here. The one place I'm supposed to be safe, and I'm not.
I grab my phone, thumb hovering over Lucy's number. But what would I say? That my perfume smells different? That a book was moved? She'd tell me I'm working too hard, that I need a vacation, that stress does strange things to people.
She'd think I'm losing it.
Maybe I am crazy.
I pace my bedroom, trying to think logically, trying to calm the panic rising in my throat. Maybe the perfume company changed their formula. Maybe I'm misremembering the scent. Maybe the stress is making me imagine things.
But I've spent my entire career developing my sense of smell for perfumes and fabrics. I know scents the way a musician knows notes. This isn't imagination.
This is real.
And that terrifies me more than anything.
I move through the apartment, checking windows, testing locks. Everything seems normal. The door is secure. The windows are latched. Nothing is missing. Nothing else seems disturbed.
But the wrongness persists, crawling under my skin like insects.
I end up in the kitchen, gripping the counter so hard my knuckles turn white, forcing myself to breathe slowly. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The breathing exercises my therapist taught me after Alex died, when panic attacks were a daily occurrence.
Someone is in my life. Moving through my space like a ghost. Touching my things. Leaving traces I can feel but can't prove.
The thought is terrifying. Paralyzing.
But underneath the fear, there's something else. Something I don't want to name because naming it feels like admitting I'm broken. A tiny spark of... curiosity.
Who would do this? Why? What do they want from me?
My thoughts flick to my ex, who still has difficulty letting me go. But no, this is too subtle for Bryce. It has to be someone else.
The questions circle in my mind as I stand in my kitchen, surrounded by the remnants of my carefully constructed safety, and realize that someone has shattered it without me even knowing when or how.
I'm alone. Truly, terrifyingly alone.
And someone out there knows it.
Chapter 2 - Nathan
The monitors glow softly in the darkness of my observation room, twelve screens showing different angles of her life. I've been watching since she left the office three hours ago, tracking her movements through the city with the same focused attention I bring to every business acquisition.
She's pacing now, her phone in her hand after discovering the perfume. I can see her thumb hovering over Lucy's number, can almost hear the internal debate. Should she call? Should she sound the alarm?
But she doesn't. She sets the phone down and wraps her arms around herself instead, standing in the middle of her living room like she's trying to hold herself together.
